


Power

by Anonymous



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Child Abuse, Foreshadowing, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Non-Explicit, POV Second Person, Physical Abuse, Rape, Sadism, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Marko hates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power

**Author's Note:**

> This is very dark. Please beware the warnings and tags.

You despise this life. You despise what it has become.

  
Money.

  
There’s no day, no hour, no second that’s not ruled by it. Everyone around you talks it, breathes it, and constantly reminds you: You’re not like them. You are as rich as them. Richer even, but you didn’t grow up in their suburbs and you didn’t go to their fancy schools. You worked for your money with your brilliant mind and hands. Every dollar you earned was a product of your time and sweat. It gave you a sense, it gave you a meaning.

  
And then you married a rich broad; thought that it would make you happy. Thought that her money would relieve you of all the little, insignificant worries that you had. You were wrong.

  
They say money doesn’t buy happiness. They are right. It buys you false friends, envy and resentment.

  
Yet you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop. You need more; always more. More businesses to be bought, more lunches to be had, more golfing tournaments, more cars, more prestige, more people who despise you for your success and you can despise in return. An eternal spiral that feeds itself.

  
You hate him most.

  
He’s one of them and at the same time he isn’t: He smiles at you and his smiles are real, full of trust, untainted by age, greed or hatred.

  
His mother is repulsive, pathetic. The withering shell of someone who thought herself so mighty but was never important. She’s so easy to ignore and forget.

  
He, however, is always there, always smiling at you. Being nice, being kind. Being innocent and sweet.

  
The first time you slap him he stares at you, the big blue eyes wide and uncomprehending, too shocked to cry. You didn’t hit hard but the imprint still glares a deep red on the pale skin. It bruises lightly and it fits him so well.

  
The next time you draw blood. It’s just a split, but the carmine cut in those pink lips moves something feral deep down inside of you. This time he cries. He’s weak. The something knows it too.

  
He screams when you break his arm, loud and shrill; like a girl, like one of those useless bitches from the country club, like a rich little piggy that’s afraid of you… afraid of what you can do.

  
The doctor at the hospital gives you a look, but what is he supposed to do? What is the boy supposed to do? He’s a child. He’s also one of them.

  
He tries to avoid you. Eats in the kitchen, doesn’t sit in the living room, goes to bed early. He spends a lot of time in his room thinking that if you can’t see him, he will be safe. But this is your house and he’s still in it. His presence is only more obvious when you don’t get to see him often, and that night you show him that he can crawl in any corner he likes, you will still find him.

  
The door isn’t locked. He didn’t think you’d come in, but it only shows how naïve he is, how much he underestimated you. He tries to talk to you, he excuses himself for things he hasn’t done. He’s just as pathetic as his mother, pathetic as they all are. But he’s not a shell, he’s alive and begging and trying to get away from you. He struggles, surprisingly hard, there is some fight in him, but you’re bigger and stronger. There’s the shock again, the shock that you could do this, that you had it in you to take his expensive clothes and tear them. That you would go ahead and take his expensive flesh too.

  
You don’t know at which point you got hard, don’t know if you were the whole way up here or just right before you force him down, but when you push in, his wails rush through your bones and you’re whole again.

  
He screams throughout, he gets louder when you pull his arm back and twist it. You do it again, harsher and more vicious. There is no one who hears him, or better: no one who would interfere. This is your house and your money. It doesn’t make you happy but it puts you above everyone in it.

  
He writhes, cries and sobs underneath you and his pain is your salvation.

  
By the time you finish, he’s grown quiet. A motionless puppet on filthy, red blotted sheets. Only his eyes are moving, alive with terror. It’s done. It could be done. It can be done many times more. He knows it now and everyone else should know it too.

  
The room faintly smells of singed wood when you turn around and leave the crying boy behind. 


End file.
